


Breaking Christmas

by MissDavis



Series: Breakable Not Broken [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Ficlets, Fluff, I'll try my best to avoid angst, M/M, No angst!, at least no angst planned, eventual nipple piercing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-06 03:32:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 18,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8733127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: Join me in some established relationship Johnlock as I attempt to make Sherlock and John participate in some Seasonal Fucking Cheer.Chapter 18: John's New Year's Eve Appointment: In which John finally comes around to Sherlock's point of view that the pleasure derived from a bit of body piercing far outweighs any risks involved.





	1. Seasonal Attire

**Author's Note:**

> You do not need to have read the [earlier fics in this series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/300966) to read this. All you need to know is Sherlock and John are married, and John is paralyzed from the waist down. Everything else is the same.
> 
> Inspired by the prompts here [Seasonal Fucking Cheer 2016](http://roquentine19.tumblr.com/post/153761991438/welcome-to-our-seasonal-fucking-cheer-2016).

At first Sally paid them no mind; Sherlock and John were always bickering at crime scenes, had been for years, and doubtless would be for many more years to come. John getting injured and then the two of them tying the knot certainly hadn't changed that at all.

She crouched down in the hallway where they'd found the first victim and examined the marks on the floor. It had been raining for days and the murder had happened not far from the office building's front door, so there were a lot of intermingled footprints as well as quite a bit of dried blood. John was staying off to the side for now, so he didn't add tracks from his wheelchair to the smudged mess. And Sherlock had stepped back so he could harangue John about his jumper not matching his scarf or some such nonsense, which meant Sally actually might be able to find a clue before he did.

"I'm not kidding, Sherlock," she heard John say. "Shut your mouth, right now, or so help me—"

She looked up in surprise. That was not the playfully exasperated tone John usually used with Sherlock. He sounded angry. Why? She wrinkled her nose and started to pay more attention.

Sherlock wasn't dissuaded. "It's only the first of December. I know how you like your seasonal apparel but if I have to look at reindeer wrapped around your neck every day for the next—"

"So stay away from my neck," John growled.

Sally could clearly hear his anger, but Sherlock seemed oblivious to it. She stood up and turned toward them, wondering how long it would take the world's most annoying genius to figure out his husband was upset.

A long time, apparently. "Not only is that scarf unspeakably ugly, it's too warm for you to be wearing it in here. You're going to overheat, and—"

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Stop acting like you're my mother. I am not too warm and I can wear what I like when I like."

"It has anatomically improbable reindeer on it and it's ugly!" Sherlock shouted, and reached over to pull the offending scarf from John's neck.

If John had knotted his scarf the way Sherlock always did, he wouldn't have been able to pull it off. But he hadn't, and Sherlock had it off before John could drop the notebook and pen he'd been holding and stop him. And of course now that their bickering had transitioned to actual arguing, every copper on the scene was looking at them, and so everyone saw what the scarf had been covering. 

To his credit, Sherlock reacted quickly once he realized his mistake. Quickly, but of course in a completely inappropriate manner. He all but threw himself at John, plopping down into his lap and contorting his lanky body so he could drape one arm over the giant, teeth-shaped bruise looming from beneath the collar of John's shirt.

Sally expected John to blow up, expected him throw Sherlock across the hall, possibly into the pool of dried blood where the murder victim had died. She also expected to look the other way as this happened, because she didn't want to have to bring John up on assault charges, especially since Sherlock so clearly deserved a good thumping at the moment. But all John did was sigh and say, "Sherlock, get off my lap. You could've just handed me the scarf back, you know."

"Oh, I—" Sherlock scrambled off John's lap, shaking out his coat as he got to his feet. He handed the scarf back to John and then took a few backward steps away from him. "Sorry." Both men had gone red, Sherlock a few shades brighter. 

Lestrade was the first one to say something, though Sally heard a few other officers giggle, once it was clear Sherlock was not about to be murdered. "Oi, John, mate. Wow. I've seen some love bites in my day, but that looks more like a hate bite. Didn't it hurt?"

John didn't reply; he just flushed even darker red and wound the scarf back around his neck, more securely this time. 

"I didn't even break the skin!" Sherlock protested. "And it was consensual," he added, glancing around as if he feared he was the one about to be arrested. "He likes me to hurt him, now. He didn't before, but since—" 

"Sherlock, shut up!" John threw his pen at him, hard, as if throwing a dart. Somehow, Sherlock caught it before it hit him in the head, even though he hadn't been looking at John. They were probably just that used to throwing stuff at each other, Sally thought.

"Okay," John said, once everyone's giggling had subsided. He picked up the notebook he'd dropped in his lap and held his hand out for Sherlock to return his pen. "So now we all know that Sherlock has a big mouth. Any other questions? No? All right then. I think someone said something about a murder needing to be solved?" 

"Yes, yes." Sherlock was almost as quick as John to collect himself. He straightened his own scarf and then once more surveyed the assembled police officers. "We're all professionals here, so let's get back to work, hmm?

Sally met his eyes, nodded, and went back to the case, trying not to look at his mouth as she worked.


	2. Inappropriate Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a 221B.

Sherlock settled back in his chair and prepared to enjoy the look of surprise on John's face when he saw what he'd bought him for Christmas. But when John tore off the paper and opened the box Sherlock's heart was the one that nearly stopped.

"Oh, thank you!" John said. He lifted the gift from the box. "I've been wanting a dark blue cardigan. I'm getting tired of all the browns."

"No!" Sherlock nearly fell out of his chair reaching for the box. The plain white rectangular box, that had been wrapped in snowflake paper and tied with a bow.

"But I like it," John didn't let go of the box or the jumper. "It's perfect. It's—wait, no. That's not my size."

"I know," Sherlock said. He pulled the jumper out of John's hand and shoved it back into the box. "Because this was supposed to be for my father."

John wrinkled his nose in puzzlement and Sherlock elaborated. "His box had a bow on it, yours didn't. I mixed them up."

"Okay. So this is your father's gift. What did you get me?"

"Not a jumper."

Sherlock saw the realization dawn on John's face. "Oh, God."

Sherlock nodded. "Come on, we need to get to my parents' house before they get home from church and he opens his box."


	3. An Abundance of Decor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficathon has no rules so I'm doing the prompts out of order. This one is #7: _There is an overabundance of seasonally appropriate decor in this flat._

John hung the fairy lights from the mantel before he and Sherlock got called away for a case. He figured he was lucky to have been able to decorate even that much. They'd had a Christmas tree in years past, but it appeared that Sherlock had disposed of it when he'd had the flat redone while John was in rehab. It was just as well. John knew Sherlock had never much cared for Christmas—he only tolerated it because John liked it. At least he hadn't thrown out the lights.

Mycroft started it, surprisingly. A prominent diplomat presented him with a gift basket full of seasonally-scented candles which he could neither refuse nor unload on any of his subordinates without appearing ungrateful. He considered re-gifting it to Mummy, but as she already owned enough candles to burn down her house and half the surrounding countryside, he decided that Sherlock and John would be appropriate recipients. Fortunately, they were out of town on a case, so when he let himself into their flat and placed the two dozen or so pillars around their sitting room, they could raise no objections. It made the room ever so much more colorful. Mycroft didn't mind the act of decorating for the holidays, as long as he didn't have to live with the results himself.

Mrs. Hudson took advantage of Sherlock and John's absence to hoover and wash up a bit for them. When she saw the candles and the lights she decided she'd add a bit more festivity to the flat. She had plenty of extra linens: red and green table runners and napkins, a crocheted tea cozy shaped like a star, doilies with glitter woven into them to liven up their rooms for the holiday. The results looked so nice that she went out and bought them a set of dishware with gold and silver accents that would make a lovely contrast against all the red and green.

Lestrade knew that Sherlock regularly pickpocketed his ID cards but he didn't mind because he'd long ago made himself a key to his flat so he could steal them back. The key came in handy quite often for other reasons, such as when his son's scout troop still had a half dozen wreaths and miscellaneous greenery to sell for their fundraiser but it was getting dark and starting to snow. Lestrade bought the rest of the inventory and then took it all straight to Baker Street: wreaths on every door, inside and out, and mistletoe hanging in the kitchen, bedroom and loo. Sherlock and John would have a very merry Christmas.

The day before Sherlock and John were due to return home, Mummy arrived and Mrs. Hudson happily let her in. She was quite pleased to find that the boys had started decorating on their own—she just needed to add the finishing touches. She hung stockings with their names embroidered on them by the fireplace and set up an heirloom nativity set that Sherlock was sure to object to. Mummy planned to tell the story of how when Sherlock was a boy he had loved moving the figures around and waiting for the baby Jesus to appear. Once he heard that, John would make sure he didn't try to get rid of it. It was so nice to have John be an official part of the family now—he was ever so useful in getting Sherlock to cooperate with her plans.

The case was interesting and complex, but after nearly a week away from home, Sherlock was glad it was over. He couldn't wait to see John's reaction when they got back to Baker Street. He'd ordered a real Christmas tree this year, and paid to have it delivered and set up so it would be waiting for them on the morning of their return. He'd given the old artificial tree away last spring, when he'd been in a hurry to clean out the flat and not in a very cheerful mood. Now he felt so much better he knew he wouldn't mind a little bit of seasonal decor. And John would be so surprised.


	4. The Hazards of December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot, another thing you need to know about the Breakable universe is that at the end of the first story I gave them a dog. I've pretty much regretted it ever since, though, and I always forget about it. I'm thinking of shipping him off to live with the Holmes parents in the country in the sequel.
> 
> This is from prompt #25: _Ice skating, cutting down your own tree, hanging fairy lights, and other ways to injure oneself in December (and the consequences of same)_

Sherlock had just dropped his last bit of clothing to the floor and climbed on top of John when they heard the tell-tale whine that indicated that the dog had once more gotten himself into some sort of trouble.

"Oh, God, what's he into now?" John said, and Sherlock groaned and rolled off of him, sighing up at the ceiling of the dimly-lit bedroom. Gladstone was sweet and friendly and loyal but definitely not the most intelligent dog Sherlock had ever owned. 

He sighed again and sat up. "I'll go find out." He didn't bother with his dressing gown, which he did regret a bit, as the sitting room was colder than the bedroom now that the fire had gone out. He regretted it even more when it turned out the dog had managed to wedge himself underneath the Christmas tree, with his collar caught on the stand. 

"The water in your dish is much fresher," he said, as he shimmied under the tree to free Gladstone, feeling the needles prickling against the bare skin of his back. He pulled him out from beneath the tree, knowing that the moment he retreated to the bedroom, Gladstone was likely to try the same thing again; they were lucky he hadn't upended the tree this time. "Okay, you're coming with me, then," he said. "Don't worry. We'll try not to be too loud."

He dragged the dog down the hall into the bedroom and shut the door. Luckily, Gladstone knew his place in the bedroom, especially when Sherlock and John were not asleep. He lay down on his doggie bed in the corner of the room without a fuss.

John was sitting up, leaning back against the headboard; Sherlock got into bed next to him. "When we're done here one of us needs to go out and buy a baby gate to put around the tree."

"One of us?" John seemed amused.

"Well, whoever doesn't fall asleep first," he said, fully intending to fall asleep first. He'd rescued the dog from the tree; John could be the one to have to get dressed and go out after they had sex.

"Come here then, I'm going to wake you up so much you'll never sleep again."

It took a few moments for them to pick up where they'd left off, but soon enough Sherlock was straddling John's lap, kissing and panting. John shifted his hands from the sides of Sherlock's face to his shoulders and then down his back. Sherlock moved his head so he could nuzzle John's neck and then— "Ow!"

John froze beneath him. "What?"

Sherlock moved his right shoulder blade, trying to distance himself from John's hand. "I don't know, it's just uncomfortable all of a sudden. Irritated."

"Sorry." John lifted his hand from Sherlock's back. "Feels like you got a scratch there. From the tree?"

"Yes. I didn't think the needles would be that sharp." He shifted his shoulder blades, the discomfort intensifying as he thought about it. "Just put your hands lower," he said, and bent to kiss him again. John did as he suggested, which Sherlock appreciated for multiple reasons, and then, just as John's left hand started to creep even lower, his upper back started to itch. He wiggled his shoulders, trying to disperse the sensation, but all he managed to do was throw them both off their rhythm. 

"What are you doing?" 

"Sorry." Sherlock leaned away from John so he could scratch at his back. "It itches." Scratching at it brought no relief, just a burning sensation. "Let me put my shirt back on." He slid off of John and sat next to him on the bed for a moment, unable to stop scratching long enough to look for his shirt.

"Turn on the lamp," John said. The light in the loo was on, but the bedroom itself was dark. Sherlock dug the fingernails of his right hand into his skin and then reached to flick on the bedside lamp.

"Here, turn so I can see," John said, and Sherlock moved as he was directed, yielding to the cool touch of John's fingers on his now-burning skin. After a moment of exploration John asked, "What things are you allergic to again?"

Sherlock tried to resume scratching but John's hands prevented him. He rubbed at his nose instead. "Um, shellfish. Kiwi. The glue they use on cheap plasters."

"Pine trees?"

"No?" Sherlock wriggled against John's hands, hoping to find relief. 

"Well, add them to the list. Your whole upper back has gone bright red, beyond just the scratches. You're not having any trouble breathing, are you?"

"No."

"Lips don't feel swollen?"

Sherlock thought about it. "No."

"Then I guess I need to kiss you some more. But first go have a shower while I get the cortisone cream from the first aid kit."

Sherlock stood up from the bed. "My parents always had real Christmas trees and I never had a problem before," he said.

"Yes, well I'm guessing today was the first time you ever crawled under one without any clothes on."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologize to my family for stealing some of their allergies, and especially to my husband, who is allergic to pine but still gets me a real tree every year. (He knows not to go near it naked though.)


	5. Mistletoe and Eggnog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it would be a good idea to combine two prompts to make less work for myself and then this took me twice as long to write and ended up almost as long as my first four ficlets combined.

Mrs. Hudson provided the eggnog, her own special recipe, which went a long way toward explaining how everyone got so drunk so quickly. Sherlock didn't even like eggnog, but he downed the first glass so no one could accuse him of being an ungracious host and then after that he started to not mind the taste so much. 

He didn't know how much John drank, but it was enough to make him behave in ways he normally wouldn't. After all, this was certainly the first time since they had been a couple that John had kissed someone else. They had been together for nearly six years, and married since August—legally married, it was official, which meant John was not allowed to kiss anyone else, regardless of how much mistletoe was in the flat. 

Lestrade was to blame for the mistletoe, of course; even if Sherlock hadn't known it immediately when he came home to find their flat filled with the unwanted greenery, the gleeful look on Lestrade's face when he showed up for the party and saw that Sherlock had not removed it was enough to give him away. 

John must have known it was him, too; that was the only possible explanation for what he did when he and Lestrade both happened to arrive at the kitchen doorway at the same time. Why else would he look up at the rather withered-looking plant hanging over his head, grin, and then haul Lestrade down by the lapels without even a glance around to see who might be watching? Sherlock was watching. He saw Lestrade tense for a fraction of a second and then go with it, returning the kiss as enthusiastically as John gave it, even though Sherlock was certain he had not kissed a man before. Just as he knew that the only man John had ever kissed before was Sherlock. Yes, neither John nor Lestrade were actually interested in the other; they were just drunk on eggnog and surrounded by mistletoe. At least neither of them opened their mouths when they kissed. 

The other guests who saw them laughed as Lestrade and John parted. Lestrade continued on into the kitchen for more eggnog while John came out into the sitting room to join Sherlock. 

Sherlock shifted his position on the sofa in case John wanted to sit there as well, but John stayed in his wheelchair, probably so he could continue to be a good host and keep socializing, not because he planned to kiss anyone else, definitely. Sherlock tried to banish the thoughts that were attempting to intrude—John kissing Lestrade meant absolutely nothing and there was no reason to be jealous at all. 

"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?" John asked, and Sherlock blinked at him and nodded. "All right," John said, brushing a hand across his knee before turning away. "It's just you got your violin out to play and then didn't." 

Sherlock looked at the coffee table where he'd set his violin. John was right; he was going to play, right after he— "I will, right after I—" he said, and bounded up from the sofa and across the room to the nearest sprig of mistletoe. Mrs. Hudson happened to be standing closest to it. Sherlock didn't mind kissing her at all. It was certainly a better alternative than kissing Lestrade. It was fine for John to kiss Lestrade—it was fine!—but if Sherlock did it, it would be uncomfortable. Lestrade was somewhat good-looking, despite his age. Not that he was old, precisely, but he'd certainly acted as a father figure toward Sherlock often enough that kissing him would be strange, like kissing a father who was also attractive, which—no. Mrs. Hudson was a much safer choice. He caught her eye and pointed up to the plant over his head and she giggled and clapped her hands and then strained up to meet his lips. A quick smack and they were done. He'd actually kissed her many times before, though not under quite these circumstances and never before in retaliation for John kissing someone else first. But there, it was over; Sherlock and John had both kissed someone they had no interest in and no one was jealous. Now he could play his violin. 

He played one song, all the while watching John, who joined the group of people gathered near the Christmas tree: a handful of his co-workers from the clinic, including Sarah, who was apparently married with a child, because she'd brought a husband and tiny baby girl along with her. The baby had been passed around the room all evening; now John was holding her, looking comfortable in a way that Sherlock couldn't understand. 

The sight was enough to prompt him to put down the violin and go to get another drink. He returned in time to see Sarah take the baby back from John's arms, and then bend down and kiss him, a small peck on the side of the mouth, nothing sexual at all, and yes, they were also under mistletoe—why had Lestrade hung so much of it in their flat?

He took a moment to make himself unclench at the sight of John and Sarah kissing—her husband was standing right there and she was holding their newborn child, so it meant nothing. Except he knew for a fact that John had nearly asked Sarah out years ago, before changing course and throwing his lot in with Sherlock instead. It meant nothing. John added a little hug at the end of the kiss, an arm around Sarah and the baby, and then she straightened up and her husband shook John's hand as they prepared to leave. It meant nothing; the idea that John would have been infinitely better off had he ended up with Sarah instead of Sherlock all those years ago was just Sherlock's personal feeling, not something anyone else believed. 

He turned away as John escorted Sarah and her family to the door. More eggnog was a terrible idea, but a few biscuits and a handful of sweets would be ideal, so he headed back toward the kitchen. All of the Scotland Yarders had congregated there: Donovan and Anderson and Dimmock and Lestrade and that small pathologist Lestrade had started seeing. Molly Hooper: Sherlock knew her name, though pretending he didn't made life simpler. It wasn't that he'd been cruel to her, before he'd known John; it was just that he'd accepted her offers of morgue-related favors while ignoring her increasingly desperate romantic advances.

She was coming out of the kitchen as he was going in. Maybe she and Lestrade were leaving; maybe the party was ending and he and John could go back to being alone with each other, with only Mrs. Hudson to occasionally interfere. 

He stepped aside to allow Molly to pass and Lestrade—her date for the evening, possibly her boyfriend—took the opportunity to bellow, "Kiss!" as she walked beneath the mistletoe. Sherlock glanced at him and then at Molly in surprise. She cut her gaze away rather than meet his eyes. 

"Come on, you're under the mistletoe," Lestrade said, as clueless as usual. Molly shook her head and Sherlock cleared his throat, scrambling for a way to distract their prospective audience. He would not be kissing Molly, regardless of the dictates of any seasonal traditions.

At least one other person in the room was able to sense the tension, because after a brief, awkward silence Sally Donovan announced, "I’ll kiss her!" and did so, earning the whooping approval of Lestrade and the other men in the room. Molly blushed and Sally raised her eyebrows and threw her shoulders back as if declaring a victory of some sort. 

Molly left the kitchen and Sherlock entered, only to be stopped in his tracks by Sally. "Why not?" she said, and put her hands on his shoulders, pushing herself up on her toes to nearly his height. He blinked at her and then tipped his chin down for a kiss. It wouldn't kill him, and he still owed her for all the times she'd helped him in the past year, though he hadn't expected her to take payment in kisses. She pressed her lips firmly against his for a second or two, keeping her mouth properly closed, and he thought he'd gotten away rather easy. She dropped back down on her heels, but when he tried to step past her she reached out and gave his bum a quick squeeze. He jumped back in shock, momentarily speechless. "Sorry," she said immediately. "But I'm drunk and I've always had an urge to do that, believe it or not." 

"Oi, Donovan! Hands off, that's mine." John came up behind him and Sherlock tried not to grin, although he appreciated both Sally's opportunism and John's territorialism. 

Sally raised her hands in surrender. "Just wanted to see if it felt as plump as it looked." 

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock said. "There is no part of me that could be described as plump." For some reason that prompted another round of laughter from the room. He glared at everyone, then at the mistletoe hanging in the doorway. "I think we've had enough of this for one evening," he said, and reached up to pull it from the frame. 

"Wait, I'm not done!" exclaimed Sally, and darted past him to throw herself at John, who of course caught her and gave her a completely friendly and platonic and yet still infuriating kiss. 

"Stop it!" Sherlock yelled. "You two aren't even under the mistletoe!" 

John laughed and Sherlock threw the mistletoe he'd removed toward the sink. "It's not funny," he said. 

"Sorry," Sally said again, clearly not sorry. "Just wanted to, you know, compare." She smirked, looking from Sherlock to John and back again. "I'd say who was better but I shouldn't kiss and tell." 

"Oh for God's sake!" Sherlock shouted. "I was willing to host a Christmas party because I thought we all could use some cheer after this past year, but this mistletoe is the most ridiculous tradition ever invented, clearly designed to allow partners to cheat on one another without having to suffer any consequences, and if someone could please explain to me what that has to do with a holiday that is supposed to celebrate peace and good will, I would appreciate it, because I clearly have no understanding and—" 

"Sherlock." John's voice, even a bit drunk, was calm enough to stop him mid-tirade. "It's just mistletoe. No one's cheating on anyone." 

Sherlock opened his mouth to object again and then closed it, suddenly aware that everyone was staring at him and that he was not completely sober himself. He clenched his jaw, unable to see a way to remove himself from the center of attention in anything approaching a dignified manner. 

"But if it makes you feel better, we can take down all the mistletoe, all right?" John raised his eyebrows and Sherlock nodded.

"Yes. Please," he said, and drew himself up to his full height, straightening the sleeves of his jacket. He shot a glare at Lestrade for causing all this trouble in the first place, and then proceeded to walk through the flat, pulling down every sprig he could find. 

The party effectively ended at that point, which was just as well, because the eggnog was nearly gone and everyone was quite drunk enough already. Sherlock summoned as much of his earlier gracious host persona as he could muster as he and John ushered everyone out of the flat. When even Mrs. Hudson had gone, Sherlock closed and locked the door behind her. 

"Come here," John said, and Sherlock collapsed into his arms, sprawling sideways across his lap in relief.

John pulled him in close. "I'm sorry about all the kissing earlier. You know I didn't mean anything by it. It was just a lark."

"I know," Sherlock said. "I don’t know why it bothered me, but it did."

"Well, you don't have to worry about it anymore. All the mistletoe's gone."

"Mm." Sherlock nuzzled his cheek against the soft knit of John's jumper, then craned his neck to look up at his face. "Actually, it's not."

"Hmm?"

"I left the one that's hanging over our bed there." He lifted his head to give John a solid kiss on the lips, open mouth, a brief flash of tongue, then pulled away. "Do you want to go try it out?"


	6. Let's Start a New Tradition

Sherlock had been chastised repeatedly for insulting the gifts grateful clients gave him after he solved their cases, so he accepted the tickets for an all-expense paid trip to a ski resort in America, but as soon as he got home he tossed the papers into the unlit fireplace.

"What are you doing?" John asked.

"Kindling," he replied, looking around to see where he'd stashed the lighter the last time they'd had a fire. "It's chilly out, and I thought we could cozy up by the fire tonight."

"Sounds great, but that's not kindling." John moved the screen away from the fireplace so he could reach down to retrieve the papers. "These tickets are worth thousands of pounds." 

"And which of us is interested in taking up skiing?"

John narrowed his eyes, and Sherlock started to backtrack. "I didn't mean—I'm sure there's some sort of adaptive skiing you could do, but neither of us has ever expressed an interest in winter sport before, so why start now?" Good lord, wheelchair skiing sounded infinitely more dangerous than basketball, and he still got a sick feeling in his stomach every time he saw one of the players on John's team take a hit hard enough to knock over their chair.

John's expression softened. "Sarah and Gerry went to one of these places last winter and she said the only time they left the lodge was to shop in the little town. They didn't go near the slopes."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. That did not sound horrible. "Is there a date on the tickets?"

John looked down at the papers in his hand, tipping them away to read them because he never remembered to wear his reading glasses. "No, it's just a couple of airline and resort vouchers."

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the mantel, considering. "So we could go next weekend, perhaps."

"Sure. What's next weekend?"

"Mummy's big party."

John's shoulders sagged. "She's going to expect us even more this year, now that we're finally married."

"Would you rather spend the weekend with twenty-odd members of my extended family or go to this ski resort?" Sherlock knew the answer; John had been to the party in years past, and while he got along well with Sherlock's parents, the rest of the family could be a bit overwhelming.

"Your mother will kill us." 

"Think of it, just the two of us, alone, far from any relatives. No Mycroft, no cousin Mirabelle, no great aunts whispering about how you don't look the sort to fancy blokes." Aunt Jane in particular seemed stunned every year to realize that he and John were a couple.

John rubbed at his chin. "We'll still have to see Mycroft and your parents on Christmas Eve. But Sarah did say it was a really relaxing and romantic getaway. I think that might've actually been where they conceived their daughter, now that I think about it."

Sherlock frowned. "I draw the line at conceiving children, but romantic and relaxing sounds perfect. Let's book the trip. Maybe we can start a new holiday tradition, the two of us travelling the world each December in order to avoid my family."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For prompt # 20: _Snow-related sporting events and other outdoor activities best observed from afar or perhaps indoors_ and also # 31. _I want to make new traditions with you and we can even wear clothes for some of them._
> 
> I decided to do a few ficlets with a little story arc, so this is the first one. The part with no clothes will be later in the arc.
> 
> (So far I have conceived of all these ficlets as happening in the same holiday season, but please don't try to construct a sensible timeline for all of them or you'll realize how haphazard a writer I am.)


	7. Some Things Which Should Not Be Peppermint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: 23. Not everything has to be peppermint and other lines that must be drawn in the sand.

They needed to bring a gift back for Mrs. Hudson. True, they'd only been in Colorado for one night, but John thought they should get the gift-shopping out of the way so they could enjoy the rest of the trip. Sherlock had agreed with him and then turned over in the hotel's huge bed and gone back to sleep, which left it to John to find a gift. He thought about going into town, since the resort's website had touted the many shopping opportunities in the quaint village nearby, but one glance at the sign in the lobby which showed the temperature outside and John decided to try the hotel's gift shop instead.

He browsed through the small shop's offerings, mostly standard tourist-type souvenirs: magnets, keychains, t-shirts and jumpers with the name of the resort prominently displayed. Nothing that would be of any special interest to Mrs. Hudson, though he supposed a selection of American sweets might please her if he couldn't find anything else.

The woman working at the till came over to ask if he needed any help. He declined, but when she heard his accent, her fake retail-worker smile suddenly widened and she started trying to engage him in more conversation. Great. He gestured with his left hand to try to highlight his wedding ring but it had no effect. "I'm just having a look around while I wait for my husband to wake up," he said, and she lost a little bit of her enthusiasm, but not all of it. Luckily, another hotel guest appeared and the woman had to excuse herself so she return to her register.

Seeking to put as much distance as possible between himself and the cashier, John wandered to the back of the shop, where he found an entire display devoted to peppermint-flavored merchandise. It seemed to be more of a seasonal display than anything unique to the resort's location. Mrs. Hudson didn't have a particular affinity for peppermint, as far as he knew, but he looked over the items anyway. Peppermint coffee and tea, as well as peppermint water, which would just be cold tea, as far as he could tell. Peppermint hot cocoa sounded good, actually; he picked up a box to try it for himself, and then saw that the back side of the display featured a much more adult-oriented selection of wares. He reached for a pack of peppermint-flavored condoms before remembering Sherlock's reaction to the mint-based lubricant they had once tried. Apparently the tingling sensation promised on the package had been more of a burning pain that needed to be washed off immediately and put an end to the night's fun. John put the condoms back on the shelf, lamenting Sherlock's sensitive skin, but then spied something he could buy instead: peppermint schnapps. Two bottles, one to add to his hot chocolate and another for Mrs. Hudson, who was sure to appreciate the gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (You would not believe the amount of time I spent trying to write this ficlet. I must have started four completely different stories before forcing this one to finish. I used to like peppermint until today. But um, not the tingling kind. Just the food kind.)


	8. I Love You and I'm Trying Not to Hate You

John could not remember ever being this sick of Sherlock, not even when he'd first been hurt and Sherlock had lived at the side of his hospital bed for weeks. He'd been drugged up and in pain and angry at the world and despairing of life in general, but he hadn't been sick of Sherlock.

Now, though. 

There'd been eighteen hours of travel time, counting all the flights and airports and customs and the drive through the mountains to the resort itself. They'd been too tired to do anything other than collapse into bed at that point—it was king-sized and very comfortable, though of course John had woken to find Sherlock had squirmed over to press up against him in the night. Not that he minded Sherlock's body pressed against his, but it would be nice to have a little bit of personal space once in a while. And he couldn't even give Sherlock a good kick to get him to move; a poke in the side with his elbow just wasn't as satisfying. At least he didn't have to feel Sherlock's freezing feet on his legs any more. He knew Sherlock continued to put them there; he just couldn't feel it.

Once Sherlock finally got out of bed, they had a very satisfying breakfast, and John thought that the trip had taken a turn for the better, but as they made their way through the list of activities they'd planned, nothing was as enjoyable as John had hoped. Possibly because "relaxing vacation" wasn't something that Sherlock quite understood, which John should have known. Sure, they'd had a great time together on their honeymoon, but there had been nightclubs and a warm, sunny beach and poolside drinking contests and day trips and eventually even a case. This tiny town at the base of a mountain was not Miami—he and Sherlock needed a city. 

The first thing they'd done together was a couple's massage in the resort's spa. It sounded lovely, especially after being cooped up in a plane for so long the day before. And it was lovely, until Sherlock opened his mouth, which was approximately one minute after they'd both stretched out on their stomachs on the tables. 

There were two massage therapists, a woman who had Sherlock on her table and a man with John. As the man arranged a sheet over John's legs and lower back he asked, "What are we dealing with here?" which John correctly interpreted as a somewhat awkward but also understandable inquiry about his spinal cord injury and how it would affect his massage. 

Sherlock, however, somehow took the question as a challenge to their relationship. "Yes, we are a couple, a married couple, in fact," he said. "Which I believes qualifies us for a couple's massage. Don't worry, we'll attempt to keep the displays of affection above the neck." 

John was mortified, as were both of the therapists, and Sherlock immediately realized his mistake. But instead of apologizing, he followed his usual modus operandi of continuing to be rude and condescending as a way to deflect his own embarrassment, until John had to tell him to shut the hell up. John had never had a couple's massage before, so he didn't know what they were normally like, but he was willing to bet they didn't usually consist of the couple laying in uncomfortable silence while the two therapists worked as quickly as possible to get the whole thing over with. John could feel his shoulders starting to tense up again before they even got back to their room. 

Later that evening they'd briefly considered going on a horse-drawn sleigh ride through the snowy streets. Sherlock declared the activity tedious and trite, but John thought it might be romantic; they served champagne on the ride. Sherlock insisted that it wouldn't be real champagne, but in the end it didn't matter because the outing was cancelled–the unusually high winds made it too cold for the horses. 

The winds had died down by the next morning, but Sherlock was cranky because the tea he had ordered wasn't hot enough. John thought he should've known better than to expect good tea in America, and anyway there was a kettle in their suite so he could've just made it himself. "I shouldn't have to make it myself if I'm paying for room service," Sherlock said.

"You're not paying for anything," John reminded him. The resort wasn't all-inclusive, but the vouchers they'd been given included a generous daily food allowance.

Sherlock sniffed and flopped down on the sofa in the sitting area of their suite. He waved a hand toward the fireplace. "You should light a fire. It's chilly in here."

"Go ahead," John told him. "It's a bit warmer today, though. I've got a ski lesson at ten. I need to get changed." He'd initially said he didn't want to try it, but it seemed ridiculous to travel all this way to a mountain resort and then not ski at all. 

Sherlock absolutely refused to join him, refused to come outside and watch, refused to do anything other than curl up on the sofa in front of the unlit fireplace and sulk. John left him like that; there was no reason for them both to stay in the room and be miserable.

It wasn't as fun as he thought it would be. The instructor was helpful and considerate and clearly used to helping skiers who couldn't walk, but John felt exposed and out of place, surrounded by other skiers who either stared or pointedly didn't look at him. He'd never been skiing in his life, and it took a little while to get used to the equipment, a single ski attached to a bucket seat and modified ski poles that he could use for balance and also to push himself along the ground where it was flat. Once he got the hang of it, actually going downhill was rather exhilarating, but then there was the hassle of taking the lift back up to the top. 

It would have been more fun if Sherlock had been with him, but that wasn't going to happen. He knew Sherlock was genuinely afraid that he would get hurt, and even if the concern was mostly groundless, John couldn't expect him to just dismiss it out of hand. He was fairly certain that his fear of John being injured again was one of the things Sherlock had tried to deal with in the few therapy sessions he'd gone to earlier this year, not that he had ever told him as much.

The lesson took a few hours, and when it was over he elected not to keep skiing on his own. He'd shown that he could do it, not that anyone he knew had seen him. He didn't need to keep proving it, and besides, despite the sun and lack of wind today, it was still bitterly cold, much more so than it ever was at home. While his toes weren't of any particular use to him these days, he would prefer not to lose them to frostbite. 

Sherlock was nowhere to be found when John got back to the room. His coat was gone, too, and John had no desire to go back outside and look for him. Maybe it was a good thing; maybe he'd gone off because he recognized they both needed some time apart. Though God help him if he came back smelling of cigarettes, John would make him sleep on the sofa tonight.

He was changing out of his wet ski clothes and wondering if he wanted coffee or a hot shower first when Sherlock returned.

"Good, you're half-undressed already. Here." Sherlock thrust a plain white plastic bag at him.

John took the bag and peered inside. "Are these—" He reached in to pull out a pair of long green shorts. "Swim trunks?"

"Obviously. Those green ones are yours." Sherlock grabbed the bag back from him and let it fall to the floor as he took a second pair of trunks out. He must have seen the doubt on John's face, because he sounded defensive when he said, "You like swimming. You swam in Miami."

"Yes, but it was 80 degrees warmer. Do you have any idea how cold it is right now? It's 14. Fahrenheit."

"Yes, I know. Because I've just been into town and I had to go to more than one shop because there weren't a lot of places that sold swimsuits and I got thrown out of the first one I found that did."

"Why?" It was a reflexive question; John could well imagine why.

"Because the owner was having an affair with the hostess at the restaurant across the street."

John grimaced, trying not to laugh because annoying as Sherlock could be, John still loved his deductions and how he felt compelled to share them even when he should know better. 

"Anyway, the pool is indoors and heated so come on."

John bit at his lip, considering. Sherlock seemed to be making an effort to do something he thought they would both enjoy, but he was tired from skiing and some lunch and a nap sounded like a better idea. 

Sherlock stared at him. "We can get lunch after, in that sickeningly quaint café that overlooks the woods. I just walked by the pool—there's no one else there right now. It'll be just you and me together, the way it should be."

John felt himself relax in a way he hadn't since the trip began, both at Sherlock's words and the sincerity he heard behind them. This was Sherlock's way of apologizing. "All right," he said. "Let's get changed and then go for a swim."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to go ahead and say this one is based on these two prompts: _17\. I’m told it is the season for good will toward men so I am going to try to not hate you_ and _8\. The Grinch, Scrooge, and Other Holiday Enemies You Might Currently Be Acting Like_
> 
> If all goes as planned, this will be as angsty as any of these ficlets get. It wasn't bad, was it?


	9. Fruitcake and Other Things that Separate Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this one is the chapter title and I am absolutely certain that it is not what the prompt writers envisioned and for that I apologize.
> 
> On a related note, I miss the days when I was able to write short fluffy ficlets that jumped around in time and ignored continuity. These 2000 word "ficlets" are killing me.

While John got changed, Sherlock admired the fit of his own new swimsuit in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. When John finally emerged, Sherlock caught his breath. "I miss summer," he said.

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock grinned. "You never wander around the flat shirtless in the winter."

John rolled his eyes. "I'm freezing right now. Grab a couple of those extra towels off the rack for me, would you?"

As they made their way down to the pool area, Sherlock watched John smile at and greet all of the resort workers they passed. He seemed to think that the hotel staff had grown colder toward them as the week went on. Sherlock admitted that he might have come off as a tad unfriendly a couple of times during the trip; the room service deliveryman in particular seemed to be especially afraid of him. To make up for it, he tried not to growl at any of the women who returned John's friendly waves. 

When they reached the pool, the room was still empty apart from them. Good. Sherlock nodded toward the hot tub at the far end of the deck. "Want to try it? I can let you know if it's too hot." Technically, John wasn't supposed to use it because his injury meant his body couldn't regulate its temperature as easily it should.

John stared up at him. "So skiing is dangerous but you're fine with a hot tub even though you know I shouldn't use it?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I know you take baths that are too hot at home all the time."

John shook his head. "Those tubs are crawling with germs. If you'd seen some of the rashes I've seen— Last month there was girl who looked like she had chicken pox after she went in one of those things."

Sherlock curled his lip at the image. "I'd be the one to get the rash."

"Yeah. Come on. Let's stick to the pool."

Sherlock tossed his towel onto an empty chair while John spread one of his out on the tile at the edge of the pool so he could sit on it and dry off when he was done swimming. 

"Need any help getting in?"

John didn't even bother glaring at him. "Did I need any help in Miami?"

"No, but perhaps you've grown less stubborn since then," Sherlock replied. He watched for a moment while John adjusted his footrest in preparation for getting out of the chair and then turned and walked to the far end of the pool. The depth ranged from 4 to 6 feet, and Sherlock preferred to get in at the deeper end; it was still too swallow for diving but at least he could jump in and get wet all at once. 

He dipped a toe in first and found that the water was warm enough that the hot tub immediately lost any lingering appeal. "The water's gorgeous," he called to John, and then hopped in, submerging his head for a moment and then shaking his hair out of his eyes before swimming over to John's side of the pool. 

It took John a little bit longer, but then he was in as well, bypassing the ladder to slip in off the edge. Sherlock could stand easily here—the water was only up to his chest—but John had to swim even in this shallow end. Sherlock watched him paddle for a moment and then crossed the remaining distance between them to take him in his arms.

"Er, hello," John said. "I thought we were swimming."

"We are." He expected an objection as he stepped backward into deeper water, pulling John with him, but none came. "I'm turning you around now. Don't argue." John let himself be turned, moving his arms enough to keep his head above water but letting Sherlock take control. When they were both facing the same direction, Sherlock used his feet to push off from the bottom of the pool and send them both drifting backwards, John lying against Sherlock's chest. 

When it became clear that Sherlock was able to keep them both afloat, John relaxed against him. "This is nice," he said. "I'm glad it's just us." 

Sherlock had to agree. This was a much more intimate display of affection than anything they'd done in public on this trip so far. On their honeymoon they'd been less inhibited, but they were both acutely aware that not all of America was as accepting of two men together as Miami had been. 

He guided them around the pool, breathing into John's still-dry hair. After a few minutes of aimless floating, John said, "Okay, I'm starting to get chilly again. Let go so I can get under the water."

"No problem," Sherlock said, and promptly dunked them both under.

He let go immediately and swam away; John came up sputtering and laughing. "Dickhead," he said, and then swam in the opposite direction. 

They each did a few laps on their own before John announced he was done. Sherlock turned onto his back to float so he could watch him get out, admiring the stretch of his back and shoulder muscles as he pulled himself from the pool. Rather than get his chair wet, he sat at the edge of the pool on the towel he’d laid out earlier, draping another one over his shoulders and letting his feet dangle into the water. He ran a hand through his wet hair, which was getting shaggy, and told Sherlock, "Keep going, I like to watch you swim." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes but turned over and began to swim, sticking with the crawl because John wanted to watch and he wasn't a skilled enough swimmer to make any other strokes look attractive. He did a couple of laps and then stopped to lean with his back against the side of the pool, stretching his arms along the edge.

“Look at you,” John said with a grin.

“Hmm?”

“Sitting there across from me, all stretched out. Preening.”

“What? I am not.”

“Yes, you are. Showing off your chest to me.”

“My chest?" Sherlock said. "You’re the one who—“

At that moment the door to the pool area opened. Sherlock dropped his arms to his sides, aware that he had been preening, just a bit. John chuckled and Sherlock gave him a scowl before turning to see who was interrupting their private swim session.

Three boys came through the door; they were already loud and annoying, and they hadn't even got into the pool yet. He decided to ignore them, rather than let them ruin his and John's holiday, but as they crossed the far end of the pool deck to unload their towels and sandals, the tallest boy laughed and shouted at one of the others.

"Ha, he's looking at your ass, Nick. Ryan's looking at your ass!" 

"I am not!" Ryan, the smallest of the boys, with light hair and fair skin, turned his back on the others to arrange his towel on one of the free lounge chairs, but Sherlock could see his face start to redden. Christ, he did not miss being a teenager. 

"You were!" the first boy shouted. "Cuz you're gay!"

"Shut up, Danny! I am not!"

Sherlock shot a glance over at John to see his reaction, but John was staring at the boys, face expressionless, shoulders rigid with anger.

"Yes, you are! Gayer than a fruitcake!"

"Ha! A fruitcake!" The third boy, Nick, the only one who looked like he might already need to shave, the one who had allegedly had his ass looked at, began to laugh. Ryan's face turned an even brighter red and he picked up his towel again as if preparing to leave.

Sherlock had reached his limit. "Enough!" His voice echoed in the glass-enclosed pool area, and all of the boys went still and quiet for a moment. 

The silence didn't last. "Mind your own business, old man." The first boy, Danny, the one who'd started the teasing, smirked and turned to face Sherlock, looking down at him because Sherlock was still in the pool, and that was absolutely intolerable—Sherlock was not going to let some snotty little boy speak to him like that. He was going to teach him a lesson. 

He boosted himself up and out of the pool but before he could stand, John spoke. "Excuse me," he said, voice no louder than normal but very clear. "He told you that was enough, and I highly suggest listening to him."

"Oh, you highly suggest, do you?" Danny took a step in John's direction and Sherlock tried to calculate whether it would be quicker to run around the end of the pool to Danny or swim across to where John sat. And whether John would be angry or understanding if he got them thrown out of the resort for assaulting a minor.

"Yes, I do." John didn't raise his voice or move, just stared steadily at the boy, who took another halting step in John's direction and then stopped. He looked back over his shoulder but his friend Nick hadn't advanced with him; at least one of them had some shred of sense.

After another moment of tension, Danny shook his head. "Whatever," he sneered, and turned toward the pool, clearly intending to jump in.

"I don't think so," Sherlock said. He was done swimming himself but he had no intention of letting this boy stay here. "You need to leave."

"I—but we didn't do anything!" Danny went from cocksure to whiny in the space of a sentence. He looked at Nick again, then over at John before very quickly looking back at Sherlock. At no point did he glance at Ryan, who had retreated against the wall at the far corner of the pool.

"Leave," John said, and made a minute adjustment to the towel thrown over his shoulders. Sherlock had no idea how he made the movement look like a threat, but he did. 

The boys seemed to find it intimidating, as well. "Come on, Danny. Let's just go." Nick was already halfway to the door, not bothering to see if Danny would follow. After a moment's hesitation Danny turned and grabbed his towel and shoes before hurrying after him. 

The door closed behind them, leaving only the boy Ryan in the room with Sherlock and John. Sherlock had no desire to speak to him—he wasn't here to mentor or encourage young boys on their journeys to discovering their sexual identities. The kid could figure out on his own if he was gay or not, and what to do about it.

John, however, was a bit more charitable. "Find some better friends," he advised. "Those two aren't worth it."

Ryan didn't reply, though he did look uncertainly between John and Sherlock and back again. He nodded once before shoving his feet into his sandals and fleeing out the door.

"Jesus," John said, and let out a deep breath; he seemed to shrink back to his normal, non-threatening self before Sherlock's eyes. 

Sherlock swallowed and then slipped back into the water so he could swim across to John. When he got there, John reached down to grab his shoulder; Sherlock had to shrug loose of his grip to climb out. They sat next to each other for a few minutes, not speaking, before Sherlock noticed how cold John's arm was against his. 

"Come on. Let's go back to the room. We'll get room service again and this time I won't complain about the tea."


	10. Snowed In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to pretend this fulfills these two prompts: _What? The heat's not working?_ and _Being snowed in with me: Good or Bad?_

After three hours spent at the resort’s snow-tubing park, the plan was for John to warm up with a shower while Sherlock got the fire going, but once Sherlock shed his sopping wet parka and the ski trousers he'd bought in the hotel gift shop, he was so cold that he didn't think he could make his fingers work well enough to light a match. 

John was still working on getting his boots off. "Sorry," Sherlock told him, and rather than moving to help, which John would have protested anyway, Sherlock bent down to plant a kiss on his bright red cheek and then ran into the bathroom to grab the first shower. He'd be done before John was even undressed, and God, why did people voluntarily subject themselves to winter sport on a regular basis? 

He hadn’t done such a thing in decades, not since he was a child riding an old plastic sled down a snowy hill in his parents’ backyard. The slope they’d been on today was much steeper and the tubes went faster than his boyhood sled and his mother never would have let him go outside to play in weather this bitter. He did have to admit that today's experience had been entertaining enough that he and John hadn't even realized exactly how long they'd been outside in the cold until they came in and looked at the clock, but it wasn’t something he felt a need to repeat any time soon.

He stripped off his clothes—they were wet around the ankles, wrists and neck—and gave in to a full body shiver. "Is the heat not working?" he called out to John as he turned on the tap in the shower and spun it toward red. He waited a moment and then stuck his hand under the water but his fingers were so numb he had no idea if it was burning or still cold. Good enough—it had to be warmer than his skin temperature right now. He climbed in and pulled the curtain shut.

He'd only been under the water for a moment when John knocked once on the door and then let himself in. "You're a dickhead," he said to Sherlock.

"Close the door," Sherlock told him. "You can share my steam and I'll be done before you've got all your clothes off."

He heard the door snick shut. "You're still a dickhead."

"And if I'd let you go first and tried to help you undress more quickly you'd tell me to bugger off. I can't win."

"True," John said. "I turned the heat up as high it would let me. Should be toasty by the time we're done in here."

Sherlock stood under the spray, tempted to not bother washing at all but in the end reaching for the bottles of shampoo and conditioner because otherwise he wouldn't be fit to be seen in public. He was rinsing out the conditioner when John twitched the far end of the curtain open and peeked in. "Can I come in?"

"Certainly," Sherlock said, knowing the arrangement wouldn't work. 

Sure enough, as soon John was seated on the bench at the far end of the tub, he started to complain. "You're blocking all the spray."

Sherlock sighed and turned around to take the hand-held shower head down. "Here. Do you want me to plug up the drain so the warm water can pool and help the circulation in your feet?"

"I guess so." John peered down at his feet, which were not nearly as red as Sherlock's own no-longer-numb-but-now-painful toes. "I think my boots and socks actually did a pretty good job. It's my nose and ears and fingers that hurt."

Sherlock refrained from pointing out that John wouldn't know if his toes hurt, but it did seem he had done a better job insulating himself than Sherlock had. They'd each had on a pair of ski trousers, but John had added a layer of thermal underwear beneath his and bought thick socks while Sherlock had just worn a pair he'd brought from home. He hadn't anticipated how much snow would end up going over the top of the boots and then working its way down inside.

He turned control of the shower over to John and got out before realizing he hadn't brought any dry clothes into the bathroom. There were plenty of towels, though, so after drying off he wrapped one around his waist and put one over his shoulders and reached for the hair dryer. It was far too cozy in the steamy little room to go out and look for clothes until he was as warm and dry as possible.

When his hair was dry enough that he couldn't justify standing there any longer, he darted out into the hotel room and grabbed the first items of clothing he could find, which were the pyjamas he'd worn last night. Flannel—he hardly ever wore them at home, but they'd been perfect on this trip. Once he had them on he found John's as well and tossed them into the bathroom for him.

He had the fire going by the time John emerged. "You should dry your hair," Sherlock said, knowing what the answer would be.

"I'm fine." John ran his hands through his hair, leaving it a mess; at least he seemed to have rubbed it with a towel so it wasn't dripping. "I'm going to make some hot chocolate. Do you want some? We're all out of the peppermint schnapps, though."

"No we're not. I bought more this morning." Sherlock got up to retrieve the bottle. "And look what else I found." He held up the tube he had found on the back of the peppermint display.

John laughed. "That's the stuff you complain about burning. Probably not the way you want to warm yourself up."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at him. "It's not going to go below anyone's waist. I'm just going to rub it all over your nipples and then lick it off." He saw the way John gave a little shiver at his words and added, "There's a piercing place in town here, you know."

"Ha. No." John took the schnapps from him and crossed the room to the small kitchenette. 

Sherlock shrugged. "It was worth a shot."

John put some water on to boil and turned to look out the window while he waited. "Oh, wow, it's really starting to snow harder out there."

Sherlock glanced over; they had an excellent view of the mountain but at the moment it was mostly obscured. "It does seem rather blizzard-like. We'll just have to make the best of it, snowed in here together." 

John grinned. "We'll manage. I'll get the drinks ready, you move the sofa closer to the fire."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is the first very cold day of winter where I live and I would like to apologize to Sherlock and John to sending them someplace cold. Next chapter they'll be back home in more temperate London.


	11. Shopping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've reached the point where I'm combining three prompts at a time:  
>  _-This is my favorite holiday tradition so just shut up and do it already/this is my least favorite holiday tradition but I feel like we have to do it so just shut up and do it already_
> 
>  
> 
> _-I only feel this feeling seasonally and right now I am feeling it a lot_
> 
>  
> 
> _-It’s not nice to slam the door on carol singers, and other inappropriate seasonal responses_

Grateful as he was to be back in London, where it was 10 degrees Celsius rather than Fahrenheit, Sherlock could have done without the increase in seasonal cheer which seemed to have manifested while they'd been away. The latest outrage occurred when the doorbell rang just as he and John were preparing to sit down to dinner.

It wasn't a client; they could see from the window that it was a group of Christmas carolers. A ridiculous tradition, but since Mrs. Hudson wasn’t home, John insisted on answering the door. He spent 10 minutes downstairs—10 minutes!—listening to the singers and then chatting with them. Sherlock tried to be patient but he had his limits.

When the noise he made clamoring down the stairs didn't scare the carolers off, he pulled a ten pound note from his dressing gown pocket and waved it at their collection bucket. "We've heard enough. Here's a donation to make you shut up."

"Sherlock!" John sounded horrified, but surely a contribution to their charity was more helpful than listening to them sing. Sherlock took another step closer to the group—John had let them into the foyer—and made a sweeping motion with his hands. "Out. Now. Happy Christmas. Don't come back next year."

The carolers filed out and Sherlock slammed the door behind them. He turned around and leaned against it. "Finally. Your food is getting cold."

"What on earth is wrong with you?" John wasn't actually angry, Sherlock could tell; he didn't even use any profanity. "Why do you hate Christmas so much?"

"I do not hate Christmas. I hate uninvited singing and people who try to inflict their good moods on me."

John chuckled and shook his head. "I married a Scrooge."

"I am not a Scrooge!" Sherlock straightened up from where he was leaning against the door and smoothed his dressing gown.

"Name one thing you like about Christmas, then."

He pursed his lips and thought about it before coming up with an answer. "I like shopping."

John's chuckle turned to an all-out laugh. "You hate doing the shopping. It's why we never have any food on the weeks when I work Saturdays and don't go out to the shops."

"Not everyday shopping," Sherlock said. "That's boring. There's nothing of interest in buying apples or a box of tea. But Christmas shopping—selecting the right gift, finding the best deal—that's an interesting challenge."

"Really?" John tipped his head, looking up at him. "I've never seen you go Christmas shopping before."

"That's because you're the only person I shop for."

"You always make me pick out something for your parents!"

"Well, they like boring gifts. It's no fun at all."

John narrowed his eyes. "You're doing the shopping for them this year."

"Fine. I can order something online." He sighed. "But it's not the same. When I was younger I would go to the shops with my mum and help pick out presents for all our cousins. She always said I was better than Mycroft at figuring out what people would like. But since then...." 

"Hmm. Well. You're right. Shopping for adults isn't as fun as picking out stuff for kids. Maybe.... " John trailed off, tapping his fingers on the wheel of his chair as he thought.

"What?" Sherlock peered at him, unable to deduce what he was thinking about. Did John have young relatives he'd never mentioned before?

"Nothing. I need to check something first. Come on, you said dinner was getting cold?"

The next afternoon Sherlock got a text telling him to meet John after work. He'd figured out that John intended to take him shopping, but why he wanted to meet at the clinic made no sense. There were no shops of any significance nearby. He waited outside while John finished up with his patients, so as to avoid having to speak to any of John's co-workers. 

When John finally joined him outside Sherlock greeted him with a kiss, then tried to shove his hands under John's armpits because he was so much warmer than Sherlock was. 

"Stop it. If you're cold you could've come inside."

"I'm not cold." He straightened up and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I don't think I'll ever be cold in London again. Where are we going?"

"Oh. Just across the street."

"There's nothing across the street."

"Not very observant, are we?"

Sherlock glared at him, then looked again. It was dark but the way was well-lit by the street lamps. "There's just a church."

"Yep." John grinned and then started across the street. 

Sherlock stared after him for a moment and then jogged to catch up. "Oh, come on. We do church on Christmas Eve with my family. What more could you possibly want?"

"I told you. We're going shopping."

Sherlock opened his mouth to object and then stopped, not wanting to give John the satisfaction. He followed him up the ramp that led to a side door and into the building. "Okay. So we're in a church. Congratulations. This is not what I like about Christmas, by the way." He wasn't fond of the way the empty building magnified his voice, but he wasn't about to whisper just because he was in a church.

"I know," John replied. "But see that Christmas tree to the side over there?"

"A Christmas tree is a pagan symbol that hardly has a place in—"

"Shut up, Sherlock. Go look at the ornaments on the tree."

There weren't any ornaments on the tree, not real ones, anyway. Just pieces of paper looped with ribbon over the branches. He wrinkled his nose and reached to pull one off so he could read the words that had been printed on it. "Board games."

"This church runs a program that provides Christmas gifts to families living rough or in shelters," John said. "Every tag is a gift a specific child asked for."

Sherlock reached for another one. "Doctor Who. This one's for you, I guess."

John grinned and took the tag. "They need all the donations by this weekend so they can give them out next week, but there are a lot of tags left that no one took. I thought we could help out by buying a few things."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I've deduced your intent. Here." He handed John three more tags that listed items Sherlock was not interested in selecting and then stepped around to the side of the tree to see what other gifts had been requested. _Musical instruments. Sweatshirt (teen boy). LEGO building blocks._ He plucked them all and tucked them into his pocket. "Here's one I could've used as a child. 'Hair straightener'."

"Oh, Sarah bought one of those for her niece. Said they're expensive."

"Worth it," Sherlock replied and took the tag. "Come on, John. Get some more tags. We've no time to waste—we've got hours of Christmas shopping ahead of us."


	12. Santa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For these prompts:  
>  _4\. Yes, _________, there is a Santa Claus  
>  21\. Encounters with Santa and other things that may be better in theory_
> 
> Sorry if you've gotten used to these ficlets being chronological--this one is not!

The party hadn't been underway for long; no one had had time for more than a glass of Mrs. Hudson's eggnog, at least, which meant that everyone was still fairly quiet and orderly. Sherlock himself would need a bit more alcohol before he felt comfortable with such a crowd of people invading his and John's home, but John appeared to have no such problem. He'd been making the rounds of the flat, greeting and chatting with everyone, although he seemed to be lingering now, deep in conversation with Sarah on the far side of the sitting room.

Feeling awkward without John at his side to make small talk for him, Sherlock crossed the room to join him. As he approached, John looked up and then cut short whatever he'd been about to say to Sarah.

Sherlock tried for a friendly grin. "Is this about my Christmas gift? I can leave the room if you want to talk about it more."

Sarah looked up at him and smiled. "No, sorry. I've just convinced John to dress up like Santa Claus and pass out gifts at the Children's Hospital."

"Sarah!" John hissed. "I wasn't going to tell him. Now I'll never hear the end of it."

Sherlock wasn't quite sure how to interpret John's tone, so he kept his own words light-hearted. "You have gone a bit grey, but I don't think you've quite got the Father Christmas look yet."

"Yeah, just shut up about it, all right? Before I change my mind."

"Please don't," Sarah said. "I really do think it will mean a lot to those kids, John." 

Of course it would mean a lot to them—children loved Santa Claus, even Sherlock knew that. Though why Sarah thought John would be more appropriate than someone older and a good deal plumper—oh. The Children's Hospital. Sarah didn't want John to play Santa Claus; Sarah wanted John in a wheelchair to play him. Presumably she thought the children would benefit from seeing Santa with a disability—they would be able to relate to him or be inspired as to their own future or some similarly uplifting sentiment. Sherlock wasn't sure if it was a good idea or a horribly offensive one, but he was surprised that John was willing to do it. A few months ago John had been so ashamed of the chair that he hadn't even wanted to leave the flat. The fact that he had agreed to this was something of a marvel.

John blew out a breath and reached for the glass that sat on the table next to him. "Yeah, I know. I said I'll do it, and I'll do it. I just don't want to talk about it." He gulped back some of the eggnog and then fixed Sherlock with a stare. "You understand me?"

"I won't say a word," Sherlock replied.

"You better not." John motioned with his glass at him. "You're not even going to see me in that beard and outfit if I can help it."

"Oh, I don't know," Sarah said and both John and Sherlock looked at her. She grinned. "Well, there are a lot of presents to pass out. Santa's definitely going to need to bring one of his elves along to help out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I will not be writing the scene of John and Sherlock dressed up and passing out presents!


	13. Sherlock's Secret Christmas Concert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: _10\. No, THIS is the worst holiday song of all time_

Sherlock had thought it was a good idea at first. After all, when John had left the rehab center last spring, the staff had issued Sherlock a standing invitation to return with his violin any time. He just never he wanted to, until December rolled around and he started to think about how glad he was that John was home with him instead of still at the center. The thought of what it would be like to have to spend the holiday season apart was enough to prompt Sherlock to call and volunteer to give a performance. Of course, it was only in retrospect that he realized he should have specified exactly what songs he was willing to play before they set the date and time. Somehow, in the intervening months, he'd forgotten how terrible the average person's taste in music was. 

"Play 'Last Christmas'!" one of the nurses suggested loudly, the moment he finished "Winter Wonderland."

"Sorry, what?" He lowered the violin and frowned at her. Were they just making up song titles to confuse him now?

The nurse started to hum, and then several other people in the lounge began to sing along, and oh God, no. Not that song. He cleared his throat. "I'm going to take a five minute intermission. Try to think of some songs that aren't physically painful to the ear and I'll consider playing them." There must be three dozen people gathered here to hear him: rehab patients, family members, and staff. Surely one or two of them liked something besides the over-played songs one heard in every shop and office at this time of year.

He set the violin and bow in their case on the floor and then straightened up, stretching and flexing his hands, which were unused to playing more than a song or two at a time. He turned to his right, planning to get a biscuit or two from the table set up by the door, and was stopped dead in his tracks when he saw who had been listening to him play. "John."

"Sherlock." John nodded his head once; his tongue darted out from between his lips, a familiar tic that could have a hundred interpretations, though Sherlock was quite certain that this time it was not a good sign. John didn't say anything else, just sat patiently next to the table that held snacks and tea and coffee. He had a crumb on his shirt collar; he'd been here long enough to eat and drink something, but he hadn't made his presence known to Sherlock.

Sherlock had no idea what to say. He'd been too focused on playing to notice John's arrival, and of course he'd never expected to see him here, given that he'd gone out of his way to hide the fact that he was coming here at all. 

John continued to sit and stare at him, not saying anything, looking to a casual bystander as if nothing were wrong, and Sherlock seized on that as his salvation. Even if John was upset that he'd kept tonight's little concert a secret, he wouldn't make a fuss in front of others, especially since most of the employees who were in the room were people who knew them from John's stay here last spring.

Sherlock adjusted his jacket and shook his hair back from his face, then crossed the room toward John. He stopped within touching distance, but reached for a paper cup instead.

"Something you neglected to mention to me, love?" John turned so they both had their backs to the rest of the room and kept his voice low.

"Sorry. I wasn't sure you'd be interested." He turned the spigot to fill his cup from the coffee urn.

"Really? You didn't think I might want to come with you?"

"No." He set his cup down without tasting it, honestly confused. "Why would you? You hated being here, couldn't wait to get out."

"Well, yeah, but that doesn't mean I don't want to come back for a visit every now and then." 

He could hear that John wasn't angry, just puzzled, though it should've been clear that the reason Sherlock hadn't told him was to protect him, to prevent him from having to relive the unpleasant memories he had from this place. And yet now John claimed he didn't mind visiting. Sherlock shook his head and reached for the cream and sugar. "I will never understand you."

"Good." John patted him on the arm. "Wouldn't want you to get bored. I'm going to go say hi to some folks."

Sherlock nodded and leaned back against the table to drink his coffee. He watched as John was happily welcomed by the physiotherapist he had spent weeks complaining about, and then realized that having John here might be a lifesaver after all. Maybe he could suggest some decent Christmas music for Sherlock to play.


	14. Sherlock's Reputation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A 221B ficlet for the prompt: _I’ve left all of my holiday decisions to the last minute; what could possibly go wrong?_

"Why would you come to me for help?" Sherlock didn't move from the doorway, blocking Sally Donovan's entrance to his flat.

She shifted uncomfortably and didn't raise her head to meet his eyes. "I heard you were good at this sort of thing."

"From whom?"

Sally shrugged. "Look, I'm desperate. I've been trying for days, but I'm getting nowhere. You've got to help me."

"It was John, wasn't it?" Of course it had been—who else would Sally have talked to? Sherlock tried to do something nice, and John couldn't keep his mouth shut, and now Sherlock was getting a reputation he didn't want.

"Come on, Sherlock. I won't tell anyone else, all right? Just help me out. I'm running out of time." 

"I find it hard to believe that a woman of your age and experience can't do this on her own. You must've been doing it for years now, haven't you?"

"Yes, but it's harder now because they're older." She looked up finally, and he saw the worry around her eyes, and how much it had cost her to come and ask this of him. 

He sighed and uncrossed his arms, stepping back to allow her into the flat. "Fine. Show me a picture of your niece and nephew, and I'll tell you what Christmas gifts you should buy."


	15. The Holmes Family Goes to Church

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this prompt, _I have always hated the holidays but you love them and I love you, so… damn it_ was pretty easy--it's the only day of the year when Sherlock lets his parents and John drag him to church. But this prompt, _Holidays: the worst possible choice to bring someone home for the first time_ was a bit tougher to do in this established relationship universe. So....

John didn't mind going to church on Christmas Eve, and watching Sherlock sulk like a child at being dragged along was rather amusing, truth be told. They rode with Sherlock's parents to the little village church and crowded into the pew together, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes first, then Sherlock. John debated for only a second before swinging himself into the pew next to him. He collapsed his wheelchair and pulled it in close to the pew so it wouldn't block the aisle. 

The small church filled up quickly; the Holmeses seemed to know everyone there. John recognized a few of the faces from years past, and of course everyone seemed to know who he and Sherlock were, which was the price of mild fame, he supposed. Sherlock hated it, he knew—John saw his lip twist in poorly-hidden distaste every time someone who stopped to say hello to his parents then turned to congratulate him and John on their marriage. "Shouldn't all these elderly churchfolk be scandalized by two men marrying?"

John put his hand face up on Sherlock's thigh. "I'm sorry they're not properly scandalized. I know how much you enjoy a good scandal." 

Sherlock threaded his fingers through John's and slumped down farther in the pew. "Wake me when this is over," he grumbled, and then jumped when his mother elbowed him. "What? The mass hasn't even started yet." He let go of John's hand so he could cross his arms over his chest, the picture of a grumpy child.

Mrs. Holmes leaned forward slightly so she could look past Sherlock at John. "You're a saint for putting up with this every day, John."

"I know."

"I'm not forced to go to church every day," Sherlock said. 

"It's just an hour. I'm sure you'll survive." John gave his thigh a pat and then reached for a hymnal; he only knew the first verses of most Christmas carols.

As the church continued to fill with people, John began to sing along with the choir, holding the book slightly to his right on the off-chance that Sherlock wanted to join in. A minute or two before the service was scheduled to start, he felt a hand brush against his left shoulder. He flinched; he would never grow accustomed to the audacity of strangers who thought they could touch him. But when he looked up, intending to tell them to bugger off in a polite and Christian manner, he saw that it was only Mycroft. He didn't particularly want Mycroft touching him, either, but at least he wasn't a stranger.

"John." Mycroft inclined his head and then wrinkled his nose as his gaze shifted to Sherlock. Sherlock didn't even turn his head in acknowledgement. John glanced down the pew, trying to see if they could squeeze Mycroft into the row, but Mycroft cleared his throat and said, "You look quite cozy where you are. We'll sit up near the front where there's more space."

We? John twisted around to see who else Mycroft was talking about; next to him, Sherlock suddenly sat up straight and took in interest in his brother. Mycroft lifted his chin and walked past them, trailed by Anthea, who stared straight ahead as if she did not see any of them.

John had been to this Christmas service with the Holmes family for five or six years now. Mycroft had always joined them, but he had always come alone. Why was Anthea here tonight? Was Mycroft planning to work through the Christmas vigil? John watched as the two of them strode up the aisle and found a row with enough room for them to sit.

"John!" Sherlock's voice was urgent—maybe he knew of some national emergency that would necessitate Mycroft bringing his assistant to church on Christmas Eve. John turned his head to meet Sherlock's bright gaze. "She doesn't have her phone out. Look. She's put it away in her handbag."

John looked again. Sherlock was right, of course. Anthea was sitting primly in the pew, hands resting in her lap. She was singing. 

"John!" Sherlock said again. "Is she—did Mycroft bring a date with him to church?"

"What?" John hadn't meant to say it out loud. He stared at Sherlock for a moment then swiveled his head back to look at Mycroft and Anthea again, trying to see how much space they had left between them when they sat—not very much, but then the church was crowded enough that no one had room to spread out. "No, it can't—"

"I know!" Sherlock said. "But—ow!"

"Shh!" Sherlock's mother had given him another knock to the ribs. "The service is starting. Stop talking and behave yourself." 

Sherlock closed his mouth and sat back against the pew, for once listening to his mother, but John could tell from the tension where their shoulders touched that Sherlock was suddenly paying much more attention than he ever had before in a church.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We will probably never know the truth.


	16. Christmas Eve at the Holmes Household

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one includes three prompts:  
>  _Love, Actually: That porn stunt double does not look like me AT ALL what are you on about._ I have never seen this movie and have no plans to do so. And I tried to fit this prompt into two earlier ficlets before finally getting it to go in this one.  
>  _Let’s pretend there’s a power cut and bring out all those candles from the gay pilot._ I've seen the pilot but wasn't particularly impressed by it and don't remember the candles.  
>  _A tree is trimmed, and ornaments are explained._ This prompt was fine although I guess I didn't really do much explaining of ornaments as it turned out. Enjoy anyway!

Mycroft elected not to return to their parents' house after the church service. Maybe he really had brought Anthea along simply because he needed to work. The entire experience of seeing his brother with another person was very confusing and Sherlock preferred not to think about it too deeply. But Mycroft's decision not to come home with them meant that Sherlock was left alone to trim the Christmas tree while his parents and John prepared dinner. Sherlock had been willing to help cook as well but Mummy still wouldn't allow him to work in her kitchen even though it had been years since the last incident.

He was making his way through the box of ornaments that had been his as a child, having decided that none of Mycroft's needed to be used this year, when John burst through the door into the front parlor. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock whirled around at the sound of his name, barely avoiding knocking the tree over. "What's wrong?" He couldn't imagine what sort of emergency could occur at his parents' house on Christmas Eve, but the panic in John's voice was unmistakable.

John took a deep breath to steady himself and then said, "You mum put the roast in the oven and then she and your father went into the sitting room and turned on the telly!"

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock felt his heart rate slow, though his confusion increased. "They always watch some ghastly Christmas film while the meal is cooking."

"I know! But it's—" He glanced over his shoulder as if Sherlock's septuagenarian parents might hear him through two doors and the drone of the telly. "It's That Film!"

Sherlock blinked through his mental catalog of films John objected to, and couldn't suppress a laugh when he realized which one he must mean. "So are you finally admitting you look like that actor?"

"No! He's pudgy and probably fifteen years younger than me. But what if your mum sees a resemblance?"

Sherlock chuckled again and then thought about his mother watching that film. "All right. I'll get them to stop." He stepped across the room and opened the door to shout at his parents. "I could use some help in here, please. I'm not sure which ornaments are mine and which are Mycroft's."

It didn't take much more coaxing to get both of his parents to join them. "Oh, Sherlock. You've got the star on crooked," his father said when he saw the tree. "You need to use the stepladder."

Sherlock moved out of the way so his father could fix the star, and then his mother informed him that he had crowded all of the red baubles too close together and that the ornaments he had made as a child needed to be hung in chronological order around the bottom of the tree. Sherlock threw up his hands. "You do it. I'm allergic to pine trees anyway."

"Since when?" Mummy gave him the stare that meant she thought he was lying.

"He is, trust me," John said, as he abandoned his wheelchair in favor of a seat on the sofa. "Sherlock, push that ottoman a little closer so I can stretch my legs a bit, hmm?"

Sherlock glanced over at him. "Just put your feet up on the sofa like you would at home."

"Sherlock!" Mummy hissed his name. He wasn't sure if she disapproved of the fact that he didn't immediately do what John asked or of his suggestion that it was acceptable to put one's feet on the furniture. He rolled his eyes at her and dragged the ottoman over to John, then plopped down on the sofa next to him to watch his parents work. His mother placed every ornament in the same particular way she'd been arranging them for years, while his father walked around the room lighting each of the dozens of candles that were scattered about. The power to the house could've been cut and they wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

"This is the giraffe that Sherlock made for the tree when he was four," Mummy said, holding up a piece of yellow Styrofoam dotted with smudges of brown paint.

"Why—" John began.

"Don't question it," Sherlock told him. He slipped off his shoes and then turned so he could put his feet and legs on the free cushion and his head on John's lap. John brushed a callused thumb over the nape of his neck and Sherlock closed his eyes, letting himself settle into the warmth of the moment. He could almost recall the feeling he'd had on Christmas Eve as a child, simultaneously content with the world and bristling with anticipation of what the new day and new year would bring. Later they would eat and then open gifts and maybe Sherlock would get out Mum's violin and they could each play a few songs, but for now he was happy right where he was.

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have two more New Year's-themed ficlets planned that should bring me to the end of the prompt list some time next week. In the meantime, I hope you all are having a good holiday season!


	17. The Landlady and the Detective Sergeant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For these prompts:  
>  _How Mrs. Hudson spends New Year’s Eve_  
>  _I barely know you, but holiday circumstances have forced us to spend a lot of concentrated time together_

Of course Sally had to work on New Year's Eve. Of course she did. Greg had invited her to the party he was hosting, but that was before he made up the schedule for the week. He'd apologized a couple of times when she came in for her shift today, saying he needed someone reliable on duty while most of the department was getting drunk and kissing each other at midnight, then he'd knocked off early to get his house ready for the party.

Anyway, it was a quiet night. Plenty of petty crime but nothing serious enough to warrant Sally's attention. After a couple of hours of sitting around she decided to pass the time by taking another look at the Hendrickson case—it had been pushed to the back-burner but something about the brother-in-law's alibi had never sat right with her. She opened the bottom drawer of her desk and thumbed through the tabs on the file folders until she found the right one. It was thinner than she remembered, though, and when she pulled it out and opened it up she discovered why. All of the photos of the crime scene and half of the interview notes were gone, replaced by a yellow sticky note. _Timeline is off. Will return pics when solved. Probably Tuesday. SH._ He needn't have left his initials—she recognized his handwriting and who else would've stolen her case file right out of her desk drawer? 

She sighed and pushed the drawer closed with her foot. She had no intention of sitting around and waiting for Sherlock to solve her case for her. Not that she wasn't glad he was back to helping out the Yard again—their number of cases solved had dropped precipitously last spring, when John had first been hurt and Sherlock had been too preoccupied to do anything but worry about him—but he could've just asked for a copy of the file instead of stealing it.

She stood up and grabbed her coat from the rack. "I'm running out for a half-hour or so. Wilson, you're in charge. Call me if anything happens, though I doubt there'll be anything more than drunken fistfights and cars sliding off the road tonight."

Wilson raised his hand in acknowledgement without taking his eyes off the game of solitaire he was playing on his computer. Sally shook her head and left for Baker Street.

She knew Sherlock wouldn't be home—he and John would be at Greg's party, the gits. Their landlady answered the buzzer when she rang it, though. Sally was slightly disappointed that she didn't get to pick the lock, as retaliation for him stealing her file. 

"Oh, Sergeant Donovan. The boys aren't in right now, they went to a party."

"Yeah, I know. Greg's party. Everyone's there except they left me to do all the work. And Sherlock stole the case file I need. Can you let me in?" 

Mrs. Hudson was more than happy to oblige, stepping aside to let Sally into the foyer and then motioning toward the lift on the right instead of the stairs. Sally had been here a handful of times since the lift had been installed, but this was the first time she'd been in it. It seemed a bit like an invasion of John's private space, given that she didn't need to use it herself, but Mrs. Hudson seemed quite comfortable with the idea, chattering away as they were carried upstairs. "It's been a godsend for my hip, you know. Never would've thought to install such a thing on my own, but every building should have one. I know it cost Sherlock a fortune, but he wouldn't let me help out at all. Said his family had plenty of money, which I guess explains how he's always had such nice suits. Hmm, here we are now." 

The lift dinged and the doors folded open. The dog, Stonewall or whatever his name was, was waiting for them as they stepped out into the flat, but once he realized they didn't have treats or a leash he seemed to lose interest in them. Honestly if she'd ever imagined Sherlock and John with a pet it would've been something a lot more ferocious than an overweight bulldog.

Mrs. Hudson kept talking as Sally headed for the desk that seemed the most likely place for Sherlock to have left her file. "This is the first time the boys have gone out on New Year's Eve in all the years they've lived here, you know. I don't blame them really, I think they both deserve to celebrate after surviving this past year. Sherlock as much as John, maybe even more so. I was really worried about him for a while, there, wasn't sure what he might do. John's always been more level-headed, so I knew he'd be all right. It was such a relief when they got married, and such a beautiful ceremony. I mean, it was simple, really, just a few of us there for witnesses but the two of them—"

Sally tried to keep listening, nodding and agreeing in the right places, but she was starting to understand Sherlock a bit more. If Mrs. Hudson talked this much all the time, no wonder he'd developed his habit of tuning out most of what people said. She shifted a pile of paper from one side of the desk to the other, wondering if she should bother trying not to make it any more of a disaster than it already was.

"Do you need some help finding your papers? Sherlock's got it such a mess in here again. You should've seen how nice it looked in the spring, right when John first came home. Spotless, it was, not a speck of dirt after all the workmen left. Didn't last long, of course, though at least Sherlock doesn't clutter up the floor like he used to. Neither of them ever dusts, though. And the dog hair!" Mrs. Hudson threw up her hands and then pointed over to a stack of papers and books in front of one of the windows. "Maybe in that pile over there." 

Sally stepped around the desk to the pile at the window. She would've sworn none of this clutter had been here two weeks ago when she'd been here for the Christmas party, although her eggnog consumption that night had been high enough to make it all a bit of a blur. She moved a large psychology textbook off the top of the stack and saw the missing pictures from her case. "This is it," she said, picking them up. The folder beneath them looked familiar, too. "And here's another file—he must've gone through my whole drawer, the sneaky bastard."

"Oh, he means well, dear," Mrs. Hudson. "He just likes to keep himself entertained, especially when John's at work. Stealing your files is a lot better than most of the alternatives. Come back downstairs with me and have a cuppa?"

Sally shook her head. "Thank you, but I really need to get back to work."

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "I have to get ready myself. I've got a date to ring in the new year with Mr. Chatterjee. We're going dancing!"

Sally smiled and nodded and tried not to picture that at all as Mrs. Hudson kept talking. "It's the first time in years he's spending the evening with me instead of one of his wives. They're both younger than I am but let me tell you, I could still show them a thing or two on the dance floor. Back in my day I— Oh, don't look so scandalized, dear. I'm not the first woman to date a married man."

Sally looked down at the floor, but felt she had to reply so Mrs. Hudson would know her expression had been less disapproval and more simple surprise. "No, you're certainly not. Sometimes it makes things easier, even, doesn't it?"

"Oh, yes. You understand. After my husband Frank got the death sentence I vowed never to get tangled up like that again—the legal problems! As if I had anything to do with those murders or all the drugs. They wanted to take all my money away! I'm lucky Sherlock was there to help out."

Sally resolutely pushed every question out of her mind. It was none of her business, and if she started asking questions Mrs. Hudson would doubtless talk even more and she'd never get back to work. She thanked Mrs. Hudson and wished her well on her date, then left the flat, resolving that as soon as she got back to the office she was going to put in her vacation request for next year, to make sure that she wouldn't be the only person stuck having no fun on New Year's Eve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Sherlock and John will be back for one more installment in this seasonal ficathon!


	18. John's New Year's Eve Appointment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last two prompts for this one are:  
>  _The holiday season has inspired me to make this heartfelt grand gesture I have been wobbling on_  
>  and  
>  _I’m not just making this major change because it’s New Year’s Eve; that’s a total coincidence_

Sherlock woke up when John opened the blinds and then pulled all the blankets off of him. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the dull glare of a London winter's morning and mumbled, "Is there a case?" 

"Nope," John said, and Sherlock closed his eyes and started to slink down the mattress, gravitating back toward the warmth of the blankets. There was never any good crime on New Year's Eve. 

John yanked the sheets completely off him. "Come on. Get up."

"No. Why? What is wrong with you?" He opened his eyes all the way this time so he could give John a proper glare.

John seemed unaffected by the glare. "It's nearly noon and I've an appointment at one and you're coming with me."

"What kind of appointment?"

"Deduce it," John said, and turned his chair away from the bed, stopping to gather his watch, wallet and phone from their place on his chest of drawers.

Sherlock squinted at his back. Not a case, so what appointment would it be? Today was Saturday, New Year's Eve, no less, so not any type of doctor's appointment, unless it was an emergency. But John certainly didn't sound in need of urgent medical or psychological care; he sounded excited about the appointment. A little nervous, though, and he wanted Sherlock to join him. Hmm. "Turn around and let me see you."

John turned and lifted his eyebrows. "Get out of bed, yeah?" 

Sherlock sat up and stretched and yawned, watching as he did so. John was fully dressed already: jeans and a plaid shirt, no jumper despite the fact that there was a slight chance of snow in the forecast. So...John was going someplace warm? Or— "You're not wearing a vest beneath that shirt."

"Excellent observation. I've made toast and eggs. Do you want coffee or tea?"

"Tea." He reached down to rearrange the sheets and blankets John had left in disarray. "What should I wear? To your appointment."

"Whatever you want," John replied, and then scratched at the back of his neck. "Er. Actually. Maybe you should dress down a bit today."

"Should I wear a disguise?"

"No, not a disguise. Just...a normal person's clothes. Like me."

"Hmm. So you want me to go with you to your appointment but you don't want anyone to recognize us, is that it?"

"I can't believe you haven't figured it out yet. You've been begging me for ages."

"Oh! Really?" Sherlock bounced out of bed in glee. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Don't ask me that. Come on. Get up and get dressed before I change my mind."

 

###

 

"So, are we piercing both of you today, or just one?" The receptionist looked expectantly from John to Sherlock and Sherlock tried and failed to scowl instead of grinning back at her.

"Just me," John replied, raising his hand to his chest. "And just the one side."

"All right," the receptionist said, and handed him some forms to sign. Sherlock stepped away to examine the waiting area more closely. The piercing and tattoo parlor John had chosen was unremarkable, as such establishments went. Well-reviewed online, but not the most popular location in the city, with a clean and well-lit waiting room that highlighted the work done there. Most of the artwork on display featured tattoos, which weren't as personally intriguing to Sherlock as John's imminent piercing was, but he occasionally found knowledge of current body art trends useful in his work.

When John was done with the paperwork, the receptionist turned and shouted into the back, "Kev! Your 1:00 is ready."

Kev, who was about Sherlock's age but with approximately twenty more holes in his head, came out to escort them into one of the rooms in the back. He motioned Sherlock to a chair while John boosted himself up onto the piercing table. 

"Any chance you're going to faint on me?" Kev was looking directly at Sherlock when he asked.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at being thought the sort who would pass out. "No. I've quite a bit of experience with needles," he said, which of course earned him a disapproving look from John. 

Kev shrugged and turned to John. "How about you? Nervous?"

"He's a doctor," Sherlock scoffed.

John shook his head. "I'm not worried about the piercing itself. I've just seen a lot of infected piercings at work."

"It won't get infected if you keep it clean. No playing with it for at least six weeks." Again, he glanced at Sherlock as he spoke. Why did everyone always assume he was the irresponsible one?

"All right," Kev continued. "Jewelry selection. Rings or barbells. Rings are easier to play with once they're healed—I assume you're not doing this purely for cosmetic reasons?"

John blushed but shook his head.

"Okay, then—wait." Kev lowered the tray of jewelry he was holding. "You—you do have you have full feeling in the nipple you want pierced?"

"Oh, he certainly does," Sherlock said and grinned as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

"Sherlock." John shot him another look. "You are here to offer moral support. Silently." To Kev he said, "Yes, I'm fine above the belly button."

"Good. Sorry, I had to ask. Okay, as I was saying, the rings are good for pulling and twisting but the barbells are less prone to catching on things—"

"Basketball," Sherlock interjected.

"No, I want a ring," John said. "I can tape over it when I play."

Kev nodded and selected a small, sealed plastic bag that held a titanium ring. "Fourteen gauge. Let's get you pierced." 

John unbuttoned his shirt and Kev wiped off his chest with a disinfectant, then used a marker to place a dot on either side of his left nipple. He pulled on a pair of disposable gloves and turned to Sherlock again. "Sure you're okay to watch?"

"Why do you think I wouldn't be? Is this some sort of gay stereotyping?"

"No. You're just very pale."

"He's fine," John said. "He's always that pale, and he's tougher than he looks."

"What does that mean? You think I don't look tough?"

"Love you," John said.

"I don't need a face full of metal to prove I'm tough."

John let his head fall back to rest on the inclined table. "Please don't get into a pissing contest with my piercer. At least not until he's finished."

Kev readied his piercing equipment, then asked, "You ready?"

John nodded. "Do it."

"Okay. Would you mind sitting on your hands?"

John gave him a puzzled look. 

"Occasionally people are startled enough by the sensation that they take a swing at me before they can stop themselves."

"Oh, sure, he looks tough enough to punch you, but I'm going to faint," Sherlock muttered, though he actually thought it was probably a wise precaution.

John linked his hands behind his lower back. "Ready," he said, and Kev bent toward him. 

Sherlock was torn between watching and looking away; he had no fear of needles or blood, but he didn't especially relish seeing John hurt, even briefly and by choice. But of course he'd grown accustomed to it over the last year, to watching John smile even as he grunted in pain. It wasn't quite the same, here in public, but it wasn't that different, either. 

John kept his eyes open but raised them to look at the ceiling as Kev guided the needle and then the ring through his skin. Sherlock watched John's face: a grimace, enough to show his teeth for a moment as Kev inserted the ring, then a long exhalation followed by a nervous laugh. "Not so bad," he said. "It burns a little."

Kev wiped a spot of blood away with a piece of gauze. John propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at his own chest. To Sherlock, the ring looked thicker now that it bisected John's nipple, but John seemed pleased. Sherlock stood up to get a closer look but before he could take more than a step toward the piercing table, he heard a shout from the front of the building. "Kev! Do you really have Sherlock Holmes and John Watson back there?"

Kev looked up in confusion from where he'd been cleaning up. "What?"

Another highly-pierced and tattooed man, a good fifteen years younger than Kev, stuck his head into the room. "Are you piercing Sherlock Holmes?"

"No!" Sherlock shouted, and looked over at John, who wore more of a grimace now than he had while having a needle stuck through his chest. Sherlock understood; a news story about nipple-piercing wasn't exactly the type of publicity he wanted, either. "I told you I should've worn a full disguise."

The younger man stepped into the room and John began to reason with him. "I know there aren't any confidentiality laws involved here, but don't you think it would be more professional to—"

"You can take his picture," Sherlock interrupted.

John stared at him as if he were mental. "That's the opposite of helping, Sherlock."

"No, listen." He turned to face both Kev and the other man. "Your website and waiting room feature the work you do here. You have a lot of tattoos displayed, but not too many piercings." He waved toward John. "But look at his chest. It's far more attractive than most of the other photos you have."

"Sherlock—"

"Shut up, John, it is. It's not just my opinion, it's an objective truth."

"Sherlock, please," John repeated.

"He's kind of right," Kev said, tipping his head to stare at John's chest.

"Of course I'm right. I'm Sherlock Holmes, as your colleague here just pointed out."

"What kind of name is Sherlock Holmes?" Kev asked. "Am I supposed to have heard of you?"

Sherlock sighed and blinked his eyes closed for a moment, then spoke slowly so they would understand. "If you keep it quiet that we were here, John will let you use a photo of his pierced nipple for publicity."

"Will I?" John crossed his arms over his chest and then winced and dropped them down to his sides again.

"Yes. Because you're far too modest to want to see yourself in the tabloids for this."

Kev might not have known who they were, but at least he understood the appeal of John's physique. "If we light it right, we could pick up some of those gray chest hairs in the photo. That'll help draw a wider audience than our usual crowd."

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'm old. Fine. Take the photo, if you'll keep it anonymous."

"Go get the good camera so we can get a close-up," Kev told the other man.

"Just make sure you can't see my face," John said. "Or this scar." He settled his left hand over the old bullet scar on his shoulder.

"Nope, just the nipple and ring," Kev said.

"Good." John leaned back against the table again and smiled at Sherlock. "I don't need your mum stumbling across a picture of my nipple ring on the internet and recognizing me. "

"I hardly think my mother would browse piercing sites online."

John started to laugh but then swallowed it. "Oh God. Your mum is going to see this, Sherlock."

"No, I really think she won't."

"What if we go on a swim holiday with your parents?" He looked down at his chest and then back at Sherlock, clearly distraught.

"We are never going on a swim holiday with my parents."

"Yes! We are—your cousin's wedding this June is in Spain, isn't it?"

Sherlock had no idea, nor any idea why John would know such a thing. "We don't need to go to that."

"Yes, we do. And your mum is going to see this and want to know why I have it. Oh, God."

Sherlock sat down in the chair again. "So we'll tell her it's for sexual stimulation. She'll understand."

"Oh my God. We will not. But I'm still going to die of embarrassment."

"Relax. We're married. She knows we have sex. She paid for our honeymoon."

"We need to get a divorce."

Sherlock chuckled. "You can wear a swim shirt and tell her you're worried about sunburn."

That obvious solution seemed to calm John enough that he allowed Kev to take a few shots from different angles once he had the camera. 

"Got it," Kev, said, peering at the camera to review the photos. "Thank you."

"And thank you," John said. "I really like it." He sat up, stretching his left arm before pulling his shirt back on.

"Not light-headed at all, are you?"

"Nope." 

Sherlock watched him closely as he lowered himself from the table to his wheelchair, but his arms seemed as steady and sure as ever, though he winced again when he pulled on his coat.

Kev led them out to the front desk so they could pay and receive a sheet of after-care instructions, as well as a bottle of saline rinse. "You can cover it with gauze if your clothes irritate it, but only loosely. Be sure to rinse it three times a day, and move the ring back and forth each time. Otherwise, don't touch it too much." He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, then asked, "So why are you two famous?"

"Murder," Sherlock said, and flipped the collar of his coat up so he could knot his scarf.

Kev's eyes widened and he looked over at John, who smiled and nodded and then handed him an extra ten pounds as a tip. "Thanks again," he said. "Make sure that picture stays anonymous. And have a good New Year."

Sherlock followed him out of the shop, trying not to laugh until they got outside, certain that whatever the next year would bring, it was off to a very promising start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, there is one prompt I didn't do in this collection: _Let’s end this year differently than we did the last one when everything sucked._ That's because I more or less already wrote that story in this universe a year ago: [To a Better Year than Last](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5599885).
> 
> Happy New Year everyone!

**Author's Note:**

> [Start here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2522717/chapters/5605520) if you want to read the earlier parts of this series.
> 
> If you want more Christmas-y fics, try my prompts from last year: Imagine the Christmas Dinners (set in my Johnlockary universe).
> 
> And come see me on [tumblr](http://missdaviswrites.tumblr.com)!


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